


[Redacted]

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: And a little smidge of non-explicit sex talk, Bad Days, Don't copy to another site, M/M, Mycroft To The Rescue, rated for language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 12:39:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19791070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: One highly charged Detective Inspector.Three different emphases.





	[Redacted]

“Fuck.”

Greg looked at the paperwork, up at the pale face of his newest Detective Sergeant, and back at the paperwork.

“I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t know I had to sign both copies.”

It sounded reasonable, Greg tried to tell himself, except what kind of Detective Sergeant didn’t know they’d have to sign the copy that went with the evidence? He took a deep breath, then another. This would take hours to fix, and it had to be done before he briefed his own superior on the case.

“Hey boss, I can deal with this,” Sally said, sticking her head in the door. She’d been recently promoted, and had plenty of her own stuff to do, but Greg still had the peculiar idea that she was keeping an eye on him. He was supposed to be mentoring _her_ , for Christ’s sake.

“Yeah, thanks,” he muttered, angling his body so he could roll his eyes without DS Juniere seeing him.

She winked at him as he grabbed his stuff and walked out, the guilt rolling over him again as he heard the muttering from Sally. Smoothing over the young copper’s alarm at seeing the grumpy old guy lose his cool and stomp out. Probably imagined Greg going home to his sad single-man flat, smoking and drinking until he passed out on his sofa.

The accuracy of that image depressed the hell out of Greg.

He trudged towards home, ignoring the world, wondering if he could be bothered with anything more than a microwave dinner and the expected half glass of scotch. Probably not. He remembered when he’d sneak in a run before going home and cooking dinner. Seemed like a million years ago now.

“Fuck!”

Not looking meant that when the bus trundled down the street and directly through a huge puddle of disgusting-London-street water, Greg didn’t even notice until he bore the brunt of the resulting wave. He stood speechless, arms held from his sides, shaking the questionable water out of his hair and eyes for a good few seconds before the expletive blew from his mouth. His coat was hardly expensive, but it would have to be dry cleaned, which was another thing to do, plus his shoes would be ruined. He shifted his weight experimentally, wincing at the squelch of his socks on both sides.

Of course, nobody stopped to offer any help; London was London through and through. Gritting his teeth, Greg started again towards home, his attention now razor honed, thinking only of his shower and bed. He wanted nothing more than for this day to be over as soon as possible.

The presence of the dark sedan was there before he really saw it; there were few cars on the street nearest his flat, and this one was far too nice for the area. It only meant one thing, and he was not in the mood to be kidnapped tonight.

“Inspector.”

“No, Mycroft.” Greg didn’t even turn his head.

“Might I offer you a lift?” Mycroft offered as though Greg had not even spoken.

“No,” Greg replied in a monotone.

“I can offer you endless hot water, an excellent meal and Scotch far superior to that in your kitchen cabinet, if you will forgive the comparison.”

Greg stopped, considering. There was grumpy, and there was stupid, and he was not stupid. He didn’t have to make small talk; but Mycroft had hit upon the magic trifecta. Nothing in the world sounded better than those three things right now.

“Fine,” Greg muttered, removing his coat. “I’m not forking out to clean out this car, though.”

“Of course not,” Mycroft murmured. He shifted across the seat, pulling out his phone as he did so. “Do you have a preference for your meal?”

“Hot,” Greg said. It was all he could think of. Anything Mycroft ordered would be excellent. How could it not be?

Mycroft smiled before speaking into his phone. “A meal for the Detective Inspector, please. He will also require a shower. Yes. I will send you the details. Thank you, Benson.”

“Your club?” Greg asked. He assumed Mycroft more or less had the run of the place.

“My valet,” Mycroft replied, finishing his text message. “Technically he assists the whole building, but as the other flats are generally empty, I find he is generally extremely accommodating.”

Greg didn’t even know where to start with all of that. “We’re going to your place?”

“If that’s alright with you.”

“Yeah,” Greg replied. _Hardly gonna argue._ “You have a valet?”

“The building has a valet,” Mycroft corrected. “There are three flats, and Benson is available to all of us equally. Fortunately for me, and I daresay, Benson, the other flats are owned by couples who chose to spend a large portion of their year overseas. Therefore, he is generally able to accommodate me immediately.”

“Lucky Benson,” Greg muttered. Mycroft raised an eyebrow, almost smirking as Greg added, “Kidding. I’m sure he’s paid pretty well.”

“He is,” Mycroft agreed with amusement. The car slid to a smooth stop, and he said, “After you.”

The place was more or less what Greg had imagined; posh but understated. It had the same feel as a small boutique hotel, the few he’d actually visited. Everything gave off an air of substantiality; you could tell the décor was chosen for its look and not its pricepoint. The same effect continued through the communal spaces and into Mycroft’s flat. Greg itched to nose around – he was a detective, after all – but Mycroft spoke instead.

“The bathroom is this way,” Mycroft murmured, escorting Greg across a parquetry floor. “Benson will have laid out everything you need.”

Greg nodded, not quite meeting Mycroft’s eye. “Thanks, Mycroft. Sorry I was so rough earlier.”

“Not at all. I’m glad I could help,” Mycroft replied. “Make yourself at home.”

Greg nodded again, closing the door behind him before facing the room.

It was beautiful, of course, a huge tub and double shower dominating the generous space, but it was the pile of fabrics on the wide bench that drew Greg’s attention.

Towels, yes, and a flannel; beside it sat a toothbrush and soap. Lifting the towels, his suspicions were confirmed.

An entire outfit of replacement clothes – he checked the labels – in the right size. Socks and pants, too. At least those weren’t his usual brand, which was actually a relief; if Mycroft had known what kind of pants to order for him he’d have been pretty freaked out.

Not that he was against the idea of Mycroft seeing him in his pants, Greg mused to himself as he struggled to strip off his sodden clothing. The pile grew as he admitted to himself that the promise of a shower and a meal weren’t the only reasons he’d accepted Mycroft’s offer. He’d been kidnapped enough, he knew the drill; only rarely did it ever end in anything other than him standing on a random street corner, blinking and wondering if the previous minutes (sometimes hours) had been real.

A few times he’d been taken to Mycroft’s club, offered a Scotch, and they’d talked. He couldn’t tell what precipitated these meetings. It didn’t seem to matter how Sherlock was doing, or if he’d just handed a case over to MI5, but those were the reason he kept allowing himself to be kidnapped.

Tonight, he’d refused, not because he didn’t want to sit and talk quietly with Mycroft, watching the fire highlight the shape of his face, but because he did. He did want to hear Mycroft’s words, slightly more relaxed than usual, the hint of amusement when Greg’s comment was particularly dry. He wanted that glimpse of intimacy, the tantalising possibility of something more than the perfunctory kidnappings he’d come to know.

Turning off the water, Greg stepped out of the shower, pushing his hair out of his eyes and gasping a little at the clear air. He’d probably pushed the ‘endless hot water’ offer quite close to its limit, he thought guiltily. _Probably should have turned on the fan, at least._ He dressed quickly in the jeans and t shirt Benson had provided, wondering how Mycroft knew his sizes. He thought they must be new; the sleeves and legs were a little long, which was often a problem for him. Not that he was complaining tonight.

Taking a deep breath, Greg raked his fingers through his hair and stepped out of the bathroom, following the lights and quiet music. He found Mycroft in a small dining room, speaking in a low voice to a man in white gloves. _Gotta be Benson._

“Hi,” Greg said, stepping into the room.

“Inspector,” Mycroft greeted him.

The other man inclined his head to Mycroft, then Greg, and turned to leave.

“Hey, you must be Benson,” Greg said to him. “Thanks for the clothes and everything. Much appreciated.”

“Not at all, sir,” Benson replied. He nodded again before departing.

“Thanks for all this,” Greg said again. Now that Benson was gone, he was highly aware that he and Mycroft were alone, in a far more personal setting than ever before. And Mycroft in shirtsleeves, his jacket nowhere to be seen. It was practically pornographic compared to what he was used to.

“You are welcome,” Mycroft replied. “Drink?”

“Yeah, whatever you’re having,” Greg said. Mycroft poured something from a crystal decanter, handing one glass to Greg.

“I trust you feel better after your shower?”

“Yeah,” Greg replied, sipping at the liquid. Scotch as promised. “Hope you weren’t joking about the endless hot water, I used up more than my share, I reckon.”

Mycroft smiled. “I did tell you to make yourself at home.”

“Yeah, my hot water barely lasts long enough to wash, let alone anything else,” Greg said without thinking. As soon as the words left him mouth, his brain supplied ideas about ‘anything else’.

_Wanking, Greg. He thinks you meant wanking._

_Nice._

“Um,” Greg said, casting around for another topic of conversation. Anything would be good. “How did you know what size to get? These fit really well.” He plucked at his shirt.

To his surprise, Mycroft’s eyes darted away, and his face grew decidedly pinker. “The personal items are new,” he assured Greg. “A moderate size in a forgiving brand.”

“Right,” Greg said, relieved but not surprised. “And the jeans and t-shirt?”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “They would be mine,” he said.

Greg blinked. “Yours?”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied stiffly. “You did notice they are longer in the arms and legs that you need?”

“Yeah, everything is,” Greg said. “I thought they were new.”

“Be assured I have worn them only once,” Mycroft replied. “An attempt to placate my mother.”

Greg studied him, automatically clocking the emotions, taking the information and building a picture. “She wanted to see you more relaxed,” he said tentatively. Mycroft nodded. “So you wore these to lunch at your parents’ place.”

“I did,” Mycroft said stiffly. “Sherlock was…kind enough to give me his opinion.”

Greg felt his eyebrows rise. “Really. Well given you’ve never worn them again, I’m guessing he was less than complimentary.”

“Correct,” Mycroft muttered.

Greg’s bark of laughter startled Mycroft, because he jumped, looking up from the drink he’d been swirling. “Your brother can be a right prick,” he said. “Can I guess this happened,” he narrowed his eyes, thinking, “about a year and a half ago.”

“Very good,” Mycroft replied. He hesitated. “How did…”

“I am a detective,” Greg said in a faux injured tone. “Sherlock wouldn’t have said that if John had been there, and they’ve been inseparable for about a year now. That whole ‘pining for your housemate’ thing made Sherlock pricklier than usual, and it was Christmas a year and a half ago. Probably your annual visit, both of you at once.” Greg tilted his head, frowning as something else came to mind. “You’re a lot slimmer than me, but these fit me around the waist, so I’m guessing Sherlock made some kind of jibe about your weight, eating mince pies or some rubbish, and now you’ve lost weight in response.”

“Very good, Inspector,” Mycroft whispered.

They stood looking at each other for a long time, Greg thought; his heart was beating faster so it was no good at helping him keep track. As he breathed deeply, it occurred to him just how personal all that had been.

“Hey, sorry if that was too much,” he said awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to pry. I mean, I’m just guessing, really.”

“You are correct,” Mycroft replied. “Although it was the Christmas pudding that triggered my brother’s observations.”

“Let me guess – you’re a custard and cream person?” Greg asked. “Personally, I pour milk on mine.”

“Milk?” Mycroft asked. “My mother would have you out on your ear, Gregory.”

“Well I’ll remember that,” Greg replied with a grin. “Don’t want to offend your Ma, Mycroft.”

“Calling her Ma would do the trick,” Mycroft murmured. “I shall save you a serve of pudding, should you be asked to leave earlier.”

Greg laughed. “Thanks,” he said. A silence fell, a strangely comfortable one, he thought. Their conversation had dived right into something oddly personal very quickly, and now he didn’t know what to say.

“So,” he said, the sudden word breaking the quiet, “were you…what were you doing there this afternoon? Were you coming to get me anyway?”

Mycroft considered the question, sipping at his Scotch and looking at Greg. “Perhaps,” he said.

Greg frowned. He’d thought it was a yes or no question. “Perhaps?” he asked.

Mycroft didn’t reply.

“Did you need something?” Greg asked. This seemed Very Important, somehow, and he knew he had to tread carefully.

“No,” Mycroft said, though he didn’t sound entirely sure.

“Did you want something?” Greg asked. The difference was subtle, but to a man like Mycroft, he knew want and need were worlds apart.

He was unprepared for Mycroft to sigh, to turn and place his half-finished drink on the trolley. For a moment, long pale fingers gripped the edge of the trolley before he turned around, meeting Greg’s eyes.

The gaze was bold, almost desperate in its intensity. Dark grey eyes bored into Greg, and for the first time, something was blazing out at him.

Want.

He felt his breath catch in his throat as he held Mycroft’s eyes, feeling the truth burn through him. His own words rang in his ears. _Did you want something?_

“Me?” Greg asked, the word clumsy in his mouth.

Mycroft opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it again. He nodded, a single jerky motion, and Greg saw his expression shift into longing and resignation. A blink, a flicker away from Greg’s face, and the smooth professional mask was back.

“Benson will call for a driver,” Mycroft said, the words tight and formal.

“Woah, wait,” Greg said, his brain scrambling to catch up. As he processed what he’d seen, and what it meant, his heart started thumping again.

Mycroft was frozen, half turned to buzz for Benson. Slowly he turned back, eyes not quite meeting Greg’s.

“Rest assured this will never-“ he started.

“No, stop,” Greg said, a little more forcefully than he meant to. Tempering his voice, he stepped closer. “Stop,” he said, almost whispering the word. Mycroft was facing him now, eyes hovering nervously over his left shoulder. Carefully, Greg moved closer, his own glass hitting the trolley a little too hard.

“Mycroft,” Greg murmured. The man before him was calm on the surface, but his breathing was a little too carefully regulated, and he still wouldn’t meet Greg’s eyes. Slowly, watching for panic or refusal, Greg lifted his hand, fingers touching just behind the curve of Mycroft’s jaw. A slight press, asking Mycroft to turn his head just a little.

It only lasted a breath or two, but to Greg it was hours. He wondered if Mycroft would resist him, refuse to meet his eyes. Would it all come to nothing?

Before Greg could assemble too much panic, he felt the skin shift beneath his fingertips; Mycroft swallowed, and then relief flooded Greg’s body as he felt the angle change.

Mycroft looked at him. Grey eyes, deep and wide, the disbelief and confusion pulsing through the air between them.

Greg tried a smile – a tentative, hopefully reassuring expression. “Hi,” he said softly.

“Hello,” Mycroft replied. He sounded uncertain; Greg didn’t know when he’d looked more vulnerable. Or beautiful.

“Was it me?” Greg asked.

“For a long time,” Mycroft whispered. He drew a shuddering breath, and as Greg didn’t run off, his straight back and shuttered expression faltered. “For the longest time,” he added.

“Me too,” Greg replied simply. His hand had settled now, cupping Mycroft’s jaw, drinking in the change before him. How had he not noticed how expressive Mycroft was? He must be a master at hiding his emotions, Greg thought, watching his thought chase across his face. And how incredible that he’s trusting me with this now.

“Really?” Mycroft asked. He blushed. “Are you certain?”

“Really really,” Greg replied. At Mycroft’s confusion, he added, “Pop culture, I’ll explain later.”

“Very well,” Mycroft murmured, barely managing to get the words out before Greg’s mouth met his.

It was a slow slide of mouths together, reassuring and gentle. Greg could feel nervous fingers gripping his waist, air shuddering across his cheek. The glorious intimacy of it, neither of them pressing for more, just settling together; it made the rest of his day worthwhile. Even the revolting gutter water.

“Gregory?” Mycroft whispered, when they parted briefly.

Greg hummed a reply, his brain wondering if Mycroft would stop talking and start kissing again soon.

“Would you care to stay the night?”

“Seriously?” Greg replied. It was rather more than he'd been hoping for.

“Seriously,” Mycroft said. He hesitated, then brought their bodies together, a careful press along their length making it clear he was aroused. “If you hadn’t noticed, I’m rather pleased you’re here.”

“Fuck…” Greg whispered.


End file.
